


baisemain

by orphan_account



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M, five times fic, no regrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baisemain: a kiss on the hand. Five times Francis kisses Mary's hand, and one time she kisses his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baisemain

**i. six**

When she first comes to France, men in tartan lift her out of her carriage; she’s so eager she might fall out of it otherwise, in her excitement to see France beyond the windows of her coach.

Her guards and governess flank her as she walks down the palace road, where the royal family awaits her. Francis, her betrothed, is chubby and shorter than her, but she can’t complain. After all, she can hardly walk on her own two feet without tripping on her already gangly limbs and making a fool of herself.

When she stops in front of the king, she curtsies. “Bonjour, Your Majesty,” she says in carefully practiced but thickly accented French, and the King laughs at her words, not unkindly. After she greets the King and Queen, she steps to the side to stop in front of Francis.

She curtsies, and Francis looks at his mother, like he’s waiting for something. When she rises from her curtsy, he takes his cue by grabbing her hand and hunching over it. His kiss is short and wet, and he comes up red-faced. “ _Bienvenue à France, mademoiselle_ ,” he says. Mary’s not sure if she should be called  _mademoiselle_  when she’s a Queen and not simply a princess, but her governess says nothing, so she says nothing either. She keeps a smile on her face and curtsies again.

When she’s in the privacy of her room with her governess, she laughs until her sides hurt, because there had been something endearing in that chubby face, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it’d been.

**ii. sixteen**

She returns to France much the same way, except there are French guards instead of Scotsmen escorting her, and her ladies are in the carriage with her instead of her governess, who’d left after she’d taken sanctuary in a convent.

The scene looks as if she’s six again, but somehow, everything is different. The Francis who walks toward her is taller than she is, his baby fat all but vanished, and… his expression is far more guarded. Mary holds out her hand, and when he kisses it, his lips are soft and they linger. Her breath catches in her throat as he rises and greets her with a soft _bonjour_.

When he offers her his hand, and they start the walk to the King and Queen, Mary wonders how she ever could have laughed at him, so many years ago.

**iii. seventeen**

They dance until the sun bleaches its light from the sky, and Mary smiles so much her cheeks hurt. The wedding is beautiful, befitting a prince (or, in her case, a Queen); she and Francis are always together, whether dancing or talking to courtiers. Bash is nowhere to be found, but Mary tries hard not to concern herself with it. Instead, she focuses on her husband, on her joy, on anything  _but_  Sebastien de Poitiers.

It works well. As her ladies are undressing her, preparing for the bedding, Kenna asks if she’s nervous. “No,” Mary admits, and that’s all she says. When her hair is brushed into curls and she’s only left in a shift, they give her a robe and take her to the bedchamber.

Francis is already waiting for her, surrounded by a crowd of courtiers. Mary ignores the courtiers, focusing on him only. He steps forward and raises her hand to his lips. But instead of kissing her knuckles, he turns her hand so her palm is facing up, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss to her palm. Francis opens his eyes and smiles. “Bonjour, chérie.”

Mary returns the grin, a familiar heat trembling low in her stomach, and follows him to the bed.

**iv. nineteen**

Her screams ricochet off the walls, but Mary can only focus on the pain in her lower abdomen. Hunched over her stomach, she doesn’t notice the midwives and physicians rushing around her. The sun is setting, closing off the day she started her labor, and she has still made no progress.

"Just keep pushing, milady," a serving girl urges, and Lola wipes Mary’s brow with a cool cloth. Another spasm wreaks through her body, and Mary throws her head back and clenches her teeth so hard a distant part of her fears they’ll break.

The doors open as another scream is dying down. Mary faintly hears the whispers of “Your Majesty, you can’t be here—” and then someone is sitting on her other side. Mary rests against the pillows and looks, but she can’t even smile when she sees her husband sitting next to her.

She narrows her eyes and, when there’s a brief moment of respite, manages to say, “Your newest subject has a lot of nerve, Your Grace. It dares to kick the Queen of France.”

Francis laughs and kisses her hand. It’s short, urgent, and suddenly Mary doesn’t care that he’s broken tradition by being there with her. She raises a hand, resting it against his cheek, and then grimaces when another shot of pain goes through her.

"Your Majesty, you cannot give up now!" a midwife urges. Mary’s grip on his hand tightens, and she pushes with all her might. Suddenly, the pain stops mid-way; when she lifts her head, the midwife is cradling a red-faced baby. A moment later, a choked cough sputters out of it, and Mary laughs as it begins to cry.

"A dauphin for France, Majesty," the midwife says. She beams at the two and hurries the screaming boy to the physician, who wraps it in a blanket and hands it off to the wet nurse.

Francis starts laughing. "You did it, Mary," he says, kissing her knuckles again. Mary laughs with him even though it hurts. _It was worth it._

**v**.  **thirty-six**

"James has returned from Scotland," Mary tells Francis, sitting on his bedside. No one but her, the royal family, and some servants are allowed inside. Mathilde, Anne and Louis sit on the rest of the bed, watching them in grim silence. "He says that he will be at the palace with Bash by sundown."

Francis coughs into his handkerchief. When he pulls it away, it’s stained with blood. Mary blinks back her tears and rests her hand on his. “They’ll be here in time, surely,” she says, trying to reassure him. Francis gives her a weak smile.

"Bash has never let me down before." His eyes turn to his children, who sit up. Anne sniffles and tries to dry her tears, but she can’t stop her face from crumpling. Francis smiles as he cups his eldest daughter’s face. "Don’t cry, Anne. I will soon be with God."

Mary turns away and chokes down a sob at her husband’s recognition of his own mortality. Louis crawls across the bed and rests his cheek on her shoulder, a comforting warmth that only makes her cry harder.

"Mary," Francis says, and his hand wraps around hers. Mary turns to him, biting her lip to keep the tears at bay, but his joy almost undoes her. He raises her hand and presses a last, lingering kiss against her palm. "Chérie, je t’aime."

He closes his eyes as Bash and James enter the room, and this time Mary cannot stop her tears.

**\+ thirty-six**

Mary’s tears are wet on her cheeks as she rests her head on Francis’s cold chest. In the corner of her eye, she can see James standing still, staring at his father in silence. Bash breaks it by getting down on one knee and shouting “Vive le Roi!”

Her children follow suit, and the cry of  _Long live the King_  soon starts to echo down the castle. Mary stays by her husband’s side, her hand fisted in his shirt and her shoulders trembling in silence.

James says something, and soon the entire room is empty but for her and Francis. She refuses to think of it as Francis’s body, because he’s still with her, somewhere.  _He would not leave without me._

Mary doesn’t know how long she succumbs to her grief, but when she opens her eyes again the night is just beginning. Mary sits up and holds Francis’s cool, limp hand. She kisses his knuckles, then his palm, and shuts her eyes to keep the memories at bay. “Chéri, je t’aime aussi.”


End file.
